The Salt
by briankilroy
Summary: [AU/Character Study] Max can't help but believe that a hundred and sixty days' ride out from the Vuvalini's encampment, they will find nothing but salt - but he goes with them anyway.


The wind coming up from the Salt chilled Max to the bone. He'd have to remedy it by curling up underneath the still-warm engine compartment; the blankets offered to him were forfeited and handed off instead to the Wives and the War Boy, neither of whom were dressed for the cold desert night. No one out here quite was. He knew they would pile up together again like they had in the War Rig for warmth. The Vuvalini would mind their own as they had for years. Furiosa? She had driver's privilege, and would have any favored spot on the vehicle if she so desired, and he wouldn't dare fight her about it.

It wasn't hard at all to tell that finding out the Green Place was sour and the Many Mothers were all but gone had broken her. Max didn't know how long Furiosa sat on the crest of that dune and cried until one of her people - the Valkyrie, he thought - went to comfort her and pull her back into the group, but knew it wasn't long enough for her. Furiosa's heart was broken. Her promise to the women of the Green Place and freedom and a better life was broken. There was no redemption to be found in the bog or out here in the sands, and certainly not out on the Salt.

Settling for the night on the edge of the Plains felt ominous, as though they were toeing the end of the world, about to jump. If they weren't careful, the armies of the Triumvirate would force them off anyways. The bog was well enough to slow them down, but Max had no doubt that their pursuit would continue until either party's supplies were ran dry and one outpaced the other. It was a full day since they had pulled the truck through - the __War Rig,__ equipped with thousands of pounds of supplies and sheer metal. They might have had torque, but they needed it. The much lighter pursuit vehicles could have been pushed or towed out to skirt around the swamp, and it would have only been a matter of time until the others followed suit and re-organized themselves to continue the chase. Immortan Joe didn't come so far only to turn back. If he needed to, he would chase them over the edge of the world.

And here they were.

The map in his hands was dreadfully incomplete. Nothing beyond the mountains was documented, though if he had to guess, there was nothing out here except that dreaded sour bog. The Vuvalini had been scratching a living off rocks - their meager rations had been bolstered by food out of the rig's hold, and the gratefulness on their faces was hard to miss. They had no secret boon of supplies out here. There was nothing but sand. Nothing worth inking in except...

Max had Gas Town marked in, and had known well enough that there was a Citadel and Bullet Farm somewhere out there that needed its own points on the map. His experience at the Amnesty had been enough for him to take the area for granted, or at least have more confidence than he should have. The ink for the Citadel was hardly dried on his map before the War Boys caught him. He knew he wouldn't make the same mistake of coming so close again, but it was a foolishness that needed to be insured against.

From inside his jacket, he pulled out a needle. It was clean - as clean as a piece of metal could be in these conditions - and it would have to do. Max pricked the flesh of his thumb to draw blood for red dye, and set about adding to the piece of cloth. It was a rather large addition to the map, but he didn't care what it covered. He had no plans to return there anyways. The triumvirate of powers, he decided, would be marked in blood with the very symbol he knew was on the back of his neck: the insignia of Immortan Joe.

There was, of course, the question of if he'd ever be in the position of finding himself too close again. Max was literally days away from the cities, and current circumstances didn't exactly favor heading back into the territory. Their options were to go north, south, and east. West? Back through the pass? That was __madness.__ There was no storm to hold back the armada. The bog was no longer a surprise. What was meant to hold them back at the pass was circumvented in a matter of hours, and he had no good faith in anything else getting the job done.

So __what's out there for us?__

 _ _Us,__ Max caught himself. __Us__ was a dangerous concept. __Us__ meant sacrifice of the self, and he could barely keep the count on his hands of how many times he had been left worse for wear. Staying wih the MFP netted him no gain. Neither did helping Papagallo and the Oil Refinery folk, nor helping the children of the oasis make their escape. Good was done for someone somewhere but never for him. As if to balance out what good he had done, the world took from him, whether it be his family, his health, his car. It didn't matter if it was punishment for his sins or simply the consequence of bad luck - he wouldn't have it any more.

He had grown tired of it, especially after who knows how long he was in that blood-bag cage. There was no avoiding the fact that his partnership was forced, and that there had been no choice, but Max very nearly discarded it entirely. When he woke from the crash, Max thought only of himself and the need to escape. The War Boy's hand would have been gone by gunshot or by mouth if he had the time; the War Rig would have been his if the killswitch had not kicked in; the guns would have been his if the Rock Riders had accepted the trade.

Instead, he handed Furiosa a gun, and __me__ became __us__ again.

But it was like that for good reason. They wouldn't have made it out without the cooperation of each other and the Wives, without the lot of them heaving at the rear of the rig to push it out of the bog, without him and the War Boy wrangling a towing wire around the tree in the middle of the track. Killing the Bullet Farmer was not a one-handed task; Furiosa blinded the tank, and Max went off to finish the job. It was difficult to admit, but when they acted together, it was a damn lot better than being alone.

Max knew what it would have meant to go into business for himself. It would have meant shooting her when he had the chance and getting the War Rig out as far as it would go, leaving the War Boy and the Wives behind for collection. Maybe he would have been granted freedom, or otherwise re-absorbed back into the Citadel. Maybe he would have figured out the killswitches and gotten the hell out of there. And it would have gone against everything he'd done to find himself in that moment.

Here and now, above the Salt, detaching from the group was easy. Harmless. Max was no longer an essential part of the group. They had the Vuvalini now - a fierce group of warrior women more than qualified to replace him. He looked over at them, sitting with the Wives. It was easy to tell that they were getting along a lot better than with him. If he wanted, he could probably slink off into the night without them noticing or caring. Take some bottles of water and cram rations and fuck off somewhere, like he always has. The sands would do with him what it would want. Business as usual. Become another story.

"Can I talk to you?"

Furiosa's words were enough to send another chill through his body. They were quiet - so quiet, so full of apprehension and uncertainty. They were the first he'd heard since rations had been passed around, and they were so unlike what he had heard before. There had always been a coolness, a subtle order, an increasing sense of relief as they traveled closer and closer to the Green Place. It was gone now.

Max looked up at her, but she had already turned away to walk to the front of the War Rig. He stood to follow, taking notice of the three women gathered behind them. Whether they were bodyguards or curious, he ignored them and limped his way over to Furiosa. "I've talked with the others," she spoke after a pause, but took another moment to build her words. "We're never gonna have a better chance to make it across this salt."

He swallowed hard against the sour taste in his mouth. Trying to cross the Salt was a foolish plan, one that promised certain death. Only he was able to avoid the fate because of his own cowardice. He had travelled for days once into the forsaken land only to turn back when it became too much. Men had to be made of a different mettle to survive on the Salt, because most of all those who go out into the plains expect and want to die, and that was the easiest thing to do.

Max wanted to ask __why?__ but knew he couldn't lead them away from the Salt without a plan that was just as good, if not better. Truthfully, he wasn't sure if there was. The Vuvalini had been able to survive out here, yes, but only so. If there was anywhere better, they would have left for there a long time ago and left the War Rig to make its own way. Going for the sake of going was dangerous, but what else was there for them to do?

"If we leave the rig here, and load up the motorcycles with as much as we can, we can maybe ride for 160 days. One of those bikes is yours. Fully loaded." Furiosa looked directly at him, trying to gauge his reaction to the prospect. "You're more than welcome to come with us."

It was a hefty offer. It gave Max a lifeline - food, water, guzz, enough to make his own way, but it also offered him the opportunity to be a part of __them.__ There was no need for him to stick around, but whether it was desired in part or by all, they wanted him to come. Maybe it was just courtesy. Maybe they __did__ think there was something out there, and they wanted him to come. Or maybe they were just too afraid to admit that it was a death march, and simply hoped otherwise.

 _ _I'll make my own way,__ he was tempted to reply. Instead of washing his hands of it, Max could ask __where do you think you'll be in 160 days?__ It would be a callous question, no doubt, if her answer was __I don't know.__ Between the dozen-odd others, there had to have been tangible cause for them to want to cross the Salt. It wasn't as though he truly knew what they would find, but there was no reason for anything to still be there. Everywhere he'd gone, it had only gotten worse. It was hard for him to think that out there in the Salt, beyond the Salt, it was any better.

Furiosa was still looking at him, still waiting for an answer. He could tell that she wanted a __yes,__ but it would be foolish to think that he owed them anything more than a __no.__ His dues had been paid. His freedom was what he'd make of it. As much as it would be a fresh breath of air to take the bike and split from the group, Max wasn't sure if he wanted to. But he could. He wasn't sure if he wanted to go with them, either, but he still could.

He sighed, knowing that trying to figure it out right then and there wouldn't happen. It was a waste of time for the lot of them. An unnecessary building of anticipation that could blow off in the wrong way. Max's answer wouldn't come - not yet.

"I don't know... if..."

Furiosa nodded and shifted her gaze back down into the sand. It wasn't a no, and that would have to do. "You have until morning to make up your mind." Her voice fell to the same hushed tone that her first question carried.

"Mmhm."

He could tell that she had more to say, but instead swallowed the words and drifted back to the trio of women behind them before returning to the rest of the group. Being left alone at the head of the War Rig didn't faze him. It left him alone to make the decision, though he still wasn't sure if he could make it. A coin toss would be better than spending his time above the Plains, trying to figure out if 160 days in __any__ direction would get him anywhere. The armada would catch him West. The mountains? They had to go on for days, and there was no telling what else would be waiting in either direction - some foulness that stayed in the nooks of the mountain face, and roadkill surely meaning to watch over the crossings at either end for passage tolls or worse.

But to ride east into the Salt for 160 days? With 160 days' worth of food, water, and guzz (that damn sure wouldn't last them as long) and with __people__? People who had no intention to harm him, and in fact meant to bring him in as their own? People who had proved that they could work alongside him as capable equals or better? It was tempting - __oh,__ how it was tempting to accept the offer and go with them for as long as their bikes and feet would take them. It was almost worth it.

If he were to go with them, then he'd have to hope as hard as he could that there was something out there beyond the Plains. Otherwise, he'd see them die. One by one. Surely the War Boy first, and the Vuvalini next, and the pregnant Wife, and the rest of them would be divided in a battle of strength to see who would be the last. Max knew damn well that it would be him standing over the last of the bodies, left to be preserved forever in the dryness of the Salt, and he knew that he couldn't live to see that happen.

And he knew hope was a mistake.

* * *

It wasn't long before they all began to truly settle down for the night. The redhead and War Boy came down from the War Rig's tanker to join the others in a dog-pile of warmth. A couple of the Vuvalini switched out as guards and the rest went down onto their own mats to get some sleep. Prodding around the engine bay told Max that there was still some amount of warmth in the metal, which meant that below, the sand should be nice and warm, and the radiation would keep the temperature sane enough for him to get to sleep.

He was in the middle of digging out the spot when he heard the footsteps behind him. "What are you doing?"

Max couldn't help but look up at Furiosa like a scolded child caught playing in the dirt. Everyone else had found a somewhat civilized way to find some sleep, but he was practically digging a hole in order to find his own. The action had always done with little thought on his own. With Furiosa standing over him, he suddenly became very self-conscious. "Um... 's warm under the engine."

She couldn't help but let out something like a laugh. It was hardly funny, but seeing a man usually so sure of himself suddenly re-think such a mundane activity as finding a place to sleep was enough of a change in the day's mood to make it so. Furiosa took a look back at the others to make sure they were all asleep - or at least not paying attention - and offered a hand to help Max get up. He hesitated before taking her help, unsure what she wanted until she opened the door to the War Rig's rear bench and stepped up.

"Come here, Fool," she offered, though it could have been anywhere between a demand and a plea.

It was only more reason for Max to pause. What would Furiosa have to do with him? He had a gun to her head some 40 hours ago - in fact he fired three rounds into the ground inches from her head to make a point - and that would be enough to give Max the jitters if it had been him in her place. Why him instead of her people, instead of the Wives whom she had decided were worth risking her life to steal away from the Citadel? There was hardly a reason unless Furiosa wanted something of him, and of what, he didn't know.

On the same token, what would __he__ have to do with __her?__ Finding warmth with her was something he could do on his own below the Rig. Sleeping was something best done alone as well. He had slept alone for many years, especially after lashing out by force-of-habit when his ghosts got the best of him in his dreams. There was very little need and very little desire to go up into the cabin with her. At worst, she was a distraction and something for his half-feral mind to target when he woke. At best, she was warmth and softness and whatever she offered, though he hardly expected or wanted anything from her.

"If you don't want to, you can..." She waved with her left arm down at the pile of sand that Max had dug out, and he almost whined. Becoming self-conscious was a great way to disrupt his mindset and recognize the human interaction between them. It was obvious which choice she gave him was wise, and which one would only give her more reason to call him Fool. Taking the latter option would also confirm suspicions that he truly __was__ a feral that balanced his conscious with rage and primal instinct.

Max was tempted to crawl under the engine out of pure spite. He didn't need their approval. Hell, tomorrow would come and they'd go their separate ways, and he didn't give a damn if her last thoughts about him were of how determined he was to cram himself under the rig. The thought of it carried his eyes back down to the shallow pit, but he stopped himself before he could move. It was the shame again. Something motivated him to look back at her to catch the silent goading in her eyes.

There was something else there, too - a pity or a disappointment. He'd seen it before. It had been in the face of doctors and colleagues and survivors and their leaders. If Max had to guess, Furiosa already regarded him as subhuman. Crawling under the rig would only confirm her suspicions. Saying that didn't bother him was a lie, and it finally made him consider it.

He found comfort in the fact that tomorrow, they could split, if he wanted. Tonight was all that he'd give up, if tonight was all they gave themselves. His company with her would be to satisfy his own mind. It was ultimately silly for Max to desire her approval, but he knew he wouldn't if that look wasn't so damning. Furiosa was pressing the exact button that needed to be. Max almost hated her for it, but didn't - couldn't. With a heavy sigh and a final look back at the camp as though someone may be watching and laughing to themselves, Max took hold of the rig and climbed into the cabin with Furiosa, closing the door behind him.

His first instinct was to stick to his own corner as if __that__ was what he'd be doing all night. The gaze she offered him told it all - __that's not what you're here for.__ Max knew that he'd need to either move over or leave. He took the initiative to come in and it was his obligation to follow through. It was for himself, too, that was what he told himself, but what was Furiosa getting out of it? She was here for a warm body, but why him above the others? "Why me?"

"What do you mean, __why you?__ "

"Why not sleep with your people?"

Furiosa opened her mouth to answer but fell short of words. She struggled with the composing her thoughts and took a moment to provide a response. "It's weird. It's like..." She sighed. "It's been thousands of days since I've seen any of them, the Vuvalini. Many thousands. They've matured, __hardened...__ just laying next to Valkyrie is different from what we did as children. We're on two different gears. She's been living this for I-don't-know-how-many years, and I've been living in the Citadel for longer, and I've come back to the exact opposite of what I was hoping for. It's supposed to be comforting, but it's not. Once we're on the Salt, it might be different, but..." Another sigh finished her thought - __it just wasn't the same.__

"I'm almost afraid to go to sleep next to any of them or wrap myself in one of their blankets," she spoke while rubbing at the same knit fabric she had wrapped around herself. "Might wake up thinking we made it. We're at the Green Place. Then I'll remember, and it'll be this past morning all over again. I know putting it off doesn't make the chance any better, but tomorrow's going to be different, no matter what happens. Hopefully different enough."

"What about the Wives?" Max nodded back towards the tangled mess of bodies.

"It's weird," she repeated herself, knowing the answer was already exhausted. "Like sleeping with pups. Soft, cold, shivering, always wanting to huddle in smaller and smaller. You could probably fit them and the boy on a cot. I've been in piles like that before, never out of want. Joining them isn't something I want to do."

There was a pause. "You don't know my name, but I'm better than them." Max brought up a good point. Of all the people to find comfort in for the night, it was him, and to Furiosa, he was Fool. There was very little that he had shared with her in terms of words and kindness, discounting entirely their synchronization in battle. His words provided very little for her to argue against, and it put her on the defensive.

"If I didn't trust you, I would have shot you the minute we were out of the mountains," she looked at him with a fire in her eyes. It was true. The valley pass was a whirlwind of trust exercises - handing off loaded guns, cramming ammunition into a rifle for a vital shot, reaching into the weapons bag at the same time... Max very much remembered the pursuit of the Bullet Farmer and his attempts to take out the spotlight before she took the gun and steadied it on his shoulder for the final shot. __Don't breathe.__ Sound was still a bit muffled in that ear.

"Sleeping in the cab with my crew became familiar. Became a comfort." She shifted her gaze and let a softer expression emerge. __Crew.__ Max very vividly remembered the sight of the War Boy that she knocked down from the driver's-side perch, and all the rest of them that were swallowed by the storm. He wouldn't dare assume what dynamic she shared with them, but could only guess that it was something like family until Immortan Joe became involved. Immortan Joe trumped any and all others, demanded loyalty over all his Imperators. Stealing away Joe's wives meant leaving the crew behind in any way possible, even if it did mean death, and with nothing at the end of the Fury Road, it felt as though it had all been done in vain. "I didn't get you in here to replace them, it's just... come on."

Furiosa's excuses - and patience - were wearing thin. The mind-game she played on Max, imagined on his part or not, was little in comparison to the persistent stone-faced attrition that he had to offer. She didn't want to explain herself, didn't want him to over-analyze. It had been a hard night into a hard day, and she just wanted the familiar heat of a body against hers in the machine she had made her own. There was very little else that she wanted on her last night above the Salt, and it honestly wasn't so hard to give it to her.

Max had to force himself to remember the reasons he stepped up into the War Rig in the first place. It was only one night. It was all he would ever give her. He could leave in the morning if that was what he wanted. To leave her now, or to even restrict himself to his own side, would be cruel after having come so far. He had the strength to come in - all he needed to do now was move over.

So he did, with a steady breath until his hip met hers, and he went underneath the woven blanket she held out to share.

Max was incredibly stiff against her, making little to no effort to relax so that sleep could take him. Still, he could feel Furiosa loosen out of sheer contrast of their stature. She pushed herself deeper into the worn-out seat, tucking her arms against her chest and shuffling until she was more faced away from Max, meaning for his back to press up against her own. There's still a pause on his part as though the gears in his mind are once again stuck, though he knows that he's had more than enough lubrication.

It didn't take long for Furiosa to give him more - her knee bowed out to knock at his. By instinct, he responded in kind with his own knock, and she came back with a rebuttal that almost made him thankful he wasn't doing this with his braced leg. It was enough to convey a message, though, and he finally complied. Max shuffled along the bench until his back was more or less against hers and there was nothing left for him to do but sit there and try to sleep, which wasn't done until he came to terms with the fact that the malleable heat of another was welcome in the dead cold.

 _ _It was a mess and flurry of images that he had the misfortune of being familiar with: death and destruction and carnage from his past that he had simmered on for years and failed to make up for. His own sins and those of others played on repeat like a broken record, imagined horrors snaking in on each loop as if to give him a glimpse of the Hell that awaited him the second he disappeared from the world. It was all, of course, on par for what he typically found in his dreams. He had had years to perfect them.__

 _ _A new theme emerged in an abrupt fashion, though it hardly phased him. Fire and darkness gave way to a bright white landscape that shone in the sun. His body vibrated on top of a leather saddle - he was on a bike. Max was out on the Salt. He looked behind himself to see if he could spot the yellow lip of sand over the horizon, but he couldn't. There was very little certainty that turning around would lead him back to the dunes anyways.__

 _ _His gaze fell back forward on the pale stretch ahead and those that he was following. Furiosa. The Wives. The Vuvalini. Something ticked in his head as he bobbed and weaved around the group. They were down one. They were missing the War Boy.__

 _ _At some point, they stopped. The sun was gone from the sky, replaced with a full moon that gave them as much light. They passed around empty bottles to drink from, took long-dry canisters of guzz to fill the bikes that by now must run only on fumes. What little greens are left are now withered and black so they eat the salt to get their fill, and in turn they piss themselves dry until they're mummified and still and surely dead.__

 _ _Max reached out for one of their arms hanging stiffly above their chests, and their skin fell off like burnt paper. His hand shifted, and it earned a dry__ snap - _a_ _ _bone broken. It was enough to make him retreat and try to contemplate what would become of him, but before he knew it, the sun came up, and with it the women. Furiosa was the only one to turn to him as the rest of them got on their bikes. "Are you coming?" He had no chance to answer. In the blink of an eye, he was back on the bike, and he rode on with them.__

 _ _It was his turn to break under the sun. His legs stiffened as the salt cured his flesh. Dust kicked up from the bikes ahead of him flew into his eyes, cutting at the sensitive organs. What little water was still in his body was being sucked out by the intense heat. The bike slammed up into his crotch like he was crossing a badlands instead of a flat plain. It took a toll on him, enough to make him consider slowing. He justified it to himself - he could catch up. Their tracks would stay in the salt long enough for him to find them down the road.__

 _ _It was easy enough - release the throttle and ease on the brakes. Still, his body had to struggle against itself; his wrist rolled with a crunch as he eased off the throttle. His fingers reached out like claws towards the brake lever, but they snapped shut on it to bring the front tire to a screeching halt. Max was launched from the bike as his momentum carried him over the handlebars. He braced himself for the impact, but the earth fell out from underneath him, and down he went until he could feel the Fire and he could feel the Hands -__

He could _feel_ the hands.

Though Max's usual instinct was to lash out and turn around to meet whoever - whatever - owned the probing hands, he instead woke with the need to lunge forwards and away in an attempt to retreat. It proved wise; when he reached the opposite end of the cab, he turned to find Furiosa. Her arms were raised to defend herself.

Having him wake up __right next to her__ was completely different from him doing so in his own seat on the other side of the rig, with the Wives and the War Boy behind her to back her up if she needed it. The two of them were alone and had pushed themselves into the corner of the rig. Furiosa could only admit that the idea wasn't so great in hindsight; she knew what could happen, but didn't think at all of what she'd do if it happened.

She didn't expect for him to have a peaceful night's sleep, especially since it had been hard for her to find any for herself. It had been easy to steel herself against Max shifting in place and muttering the names of people and places that were long gone. It was easier, still, when there was nothing coming from him. It only became trouble when he sat up with a jerk and promptly collapsed back onto Furiosa.

She froze. What should she do? Push him off? Wait for him to come out of it? It wasn't as easy to defuse this as it had been the day before. __It's okay. Sleep.__ That was easy to say when Max had been isolated and had come to. He was still dead asleep, and she sure as hell wasn't going to be stuck underneath him all night. Furiosa wedged her left arm behind his back and placed her right hand on his shoulder to push him off. There was a thought - __I should be gentle__ \- but Max moved before she could do anything.

It was violent. Max moved so fast, he nearly burst out through the door, but it held fast and he fell to the floor between the seats. The look on his face was telling enough. It wasn't a good one.

"We're going to die out there on the Salt," he told her with a certainty in his voice, failing to catch himself before he could say __we__. It implied that he would go, which was something he hadn't decided before he went to sleep, and something that his nightmare made nearly impossible to consider.

Furiosa had no words to counter him. Those words and the conviction behind them hadn't been prepared for, hadn't been discussed in the hushed conversation around the campfire. Despite the pessimism - no, __realism__ that Max expressed about their plan, she wanted to remain convinced otherwise. "We're going to find something somewhere out there."

"There's nothing out there," he responded with that same certainty again and it grated her down to the bone. She knew what he was trying to do. It was easier to stay than it was to go. He could still scratch a living off rocks if there were rocks to scratch. If the Fool could spare them an apparently-certain fate of marching themselves out to die, then he'd be doing them a favor. Furiosa shook her head at the sentiment.

"The Vuvalini are Old World, they know better than anyone that there is. I've seen maps, I know there's more to the world than just this. You can't pretend we won't find somewhere out there in 160 days." It was true that she had. In the rare moments that Immortan Joe needed to find a new trade route or wanted to raid out in a certain direction, he brought out his maps and laid them out for his Imperators to see. They were from Before, riddled with lines for roads long abandoned and dots for towns long burnt down. The words she saw no longer had any meaning to anyone - __Queensland, New South Wales, Australia__ \- and were replaced with their own terminology.

Furiosa had seen the big map only once. It was one that Joe rarely had the need to bring out; in fact, it had been taken out by accident, but she had seen it all the same. There they were - __Australia,__ she pointed out on the map to herself. Somewhere across that sea of blue, now sea of salt, there other places – places many times bigger but many times further away than the longest run she ever took. Places that could be just as dry, but could be just as green - __greener.__ There had been no desire for Immortan Joe to find out. He couldn't move his empire, couldn't sustain his power 300 miles away. The scarce dots in what used to be their watery border with the world were the farthest out anyone had dared explored. Things were different now. They had the __luxury__ of going - and the luxury of turning back.

With silence between them, Max got up from the floorboard and set himself right on the bench again, pulling his jacket tight around himself. His distance was kept, though her heat had grown on him. "What makes you think it'll be any different out there?"

"What makes you think it __won't__ be?"

"Because it can't be," he responded definitively. "D'y'know how many bombs were dropped? __Everywhere?__ Dropped them by the tens on cities just to make sure at least one of them hit, but they __all__ did, everywhere. Perth, Alice Springs, Sydney, Brisbane. Then the jetstream carries all that fallout until it covers hundreds of square kilometers and there's no helping it. Kills the environment, animals, people if they take it in. Make them half-lives. The States?" Max continued as though Furiosa would know where he was talking about. "Got hit on the West Coast, and killed their crop because it all went East in the wind. Anything they dropped on the Soviets came back along because it all went East, and anything the Soviets dropped on Europe came back because it __all went East__ and this happened __everywhere,__ and there can't be a damn place that got away from it all."

His tone had changed, as though he was angry that he had to convey the idea to Furiosa that the world was truly dead. Max couldn't think that the older women didn't know as much, if not more than him about it all. Then again, there was no telling how long the Green Place had been isolated from society. It could have only been passing rumor that brought word of anything happening __anywhere.__ Beyond that, they only had their folk stories, and they didn't count as history lessons.

It was painful for Furiosa to listen to. Max offered the only serious counter-argument to their plan. All the rest of them had only slowly warmed up to it with gentle encouragement. To them, there was nothing else to do. There was no turning back, no piddling about in the rest of the Wasteland waiting for the roving band of warrior women (and men) to be re-discovered. They lacked the capacity to deal with what was behind them, and it would serve them better to accept it sooner rather than later. Accepting it meant looking elsewhere, and elsewhere was out in the Salt. "What's the fucking harm in just looking?"

He could almost scoff at the question. There was a lot. There was almost too much that could go wrong. Heat stroke. Exposure. Dehydration. They could spill their fuel, their drink, their food. They could crash - __many__ of them could crash and leave too few bikes for too many people - who would be left behind? Any one of them could lose it under the sun and point out a mirage and fang it in an attempt to catch it until they realize it doesn't exist, and where would they go from there? They could lose all sense of direction and only travel in circles, getting nowhere. Worst of all, they could drive straight on, go as far as they could, see as much as they could, and do what their 160 days of supplies would allow them, and find nothing. They could starve themselves down to the last person in a futile effort to find a better place when in the end, they would have been better off doing what they always had done - get by.

"Why can't there be somewhere else out there that's just as good? Just as bad? If we had this here, why can't we have this somewhere else? And __a hundred-and-sixty fucking days__ to get there? Do you know how __long__ that is? We could drive around the world a few times before we even got serious about it." Furiosa turned to directly engage him, but he remained still with his eyes out to the salt.

Max didn't want to hear it anymore. He knew what she was getting at but knew it would get her nowhere. Why wouldn't it? Because misfortune transcended the odds, bypassed what advantages they had in time and supplies. No matter how well prepared they were, things would just go wrong because they could. The universe, Max hypothesized, organized itself against well-doers. Angharad, he thought of the Wife who put her body before the gun and cut the chain of the harpoon to help him - and she went under the wheels. Papagallo. He remembered the man who only wanted to help his people escape the tyranny of Lord Humungus, and was speared through with a trident for his trouble. His family, he couldn't think of without shuddering, and Goose not far behind them. Max wondered how long he had been left to live without his skin.

What about Furiosa? She had stolen Immortan Joe's wives with the goal of setting them free. It was quite obvious how far she had gotten. One of them was already dead. Their destination of the Green Place no longer existed. They sat above the Salt in a sort of limbo, waiting to travel from one ring of hell to the next. For all the good she wanted to do, she had achieved very little, and it was for that reason, Max now thought, that she would live on for those 160 days through the Plains of Silence. Her fate at the end of that long road could only be decided by a cosmic coin toss, and he couldn't bare to go that long, that far just for the sake of chance.

"You're afraid, aren't you?" she asked in a softer tone after a moment of observing him. There was something about the Fool's form and his staunch opposition to the idea even though he had no commitment to come with them. She backed off of what would have been a renewed offensive in favor of finding out why he wouldn't take the chance.

There was a pause before, shamefully and honestly, the answer came. "Mmhm."

"Of what?"

"Of there being nothing. On the 160th day, there's nothing but salt. Nowhere to go, too late to turn back. Dying out there." Max almost dared to reveal his worries that they would not all fall at once; he had morbidly pondered the order of their deaths, but to speak of it would bring nothing but anger.

Furiosa understood completely. It was what she was afraid of, too, but the chance of there being some place for them out there beyond the Plains was worth the fear haunting her down to the last hour. There was nothing left for her here, which was what allowed her to want to take such a gamble. The Fool, she knew, was more invested in the certainty of the poverty that Joe's wasteland granted him - she needed to offer him a lifeline. "Ride with us for fifty days," she asked of him, and he made another noise and weakly brushed off her suggestion. Still, she persisted. "Fifty days and if you can't bare it any more, you have fifty days to find your way back and fifty days of supplies to do what you will. You've found your way so far, road warrior, and you'll find your way again."

It was too gracious of an offer to outright deny, but it still carried the naive hopefulness with it that their supplies __would__ last to 160 days. A thought came to counter the possibility of any scarcity – he could head back any time he wanted. It wasn't as though they'd waste their own supplies to stop him.

Max let out a sigh as he re-tightened his jacket around him and forced himself to think about what could go right. What would make it all worth it? Finding a "Green Place?" Absolutely. Any sort of benevolent civilization? Might be good to hang around. A place just as desolate and cut-throat as the land within the Triumvirate? Better than nothing. As much as he'd love to look forward to any of these being down the road, there was still the need to get over the feeling that they wouldn't. Maybe it would go in time. Maybe the feeling would only amplify. At any rate, it was useless to try to sort out now.

He looked over at Furiosa, wondering why in the world she was wasting her energy arguing against him – hell, even arguing __for__ him to come along. It was beyond the simplicity of side A against side B. For all of the push-back he was offering, Furiosa seemed dead set on having him out there. "Why do you want me to come?"

"Because if there's something there at the end of the road, be it more of the same or another Green Place, I... you deserve it. You've done more than your fair share to help when you had no reason to stick along. I can't pretend like I have anything for you but your division of the supplies, but if you come with us and there's something there at the end of that 160 days, __sooner...__ it should be yours. Give yourself the chance."

 _ _Give yourself the chance.__ He'd be giving himself the chance to die. (There was an out, Max forced himself to recognize it - fifty days was all the time she asked of him before he would go back.) And on the other side of that coin, he'd be giving himself the chance to a better life. There was very little that was worse than the one he lived within the boundary of the Triumvirate. He had no supplies when he was run down, had none for a long time. Unless he found something to sustain himself by the 160th day when his supplies were due to run dry, he might as well be out on the Salt.

 _ _Might as well be.__

With no sound to register his commital, and no desire to speak of it any further, Max moved back over to Furiosa, awaiting her approval before going back underneath the thick blanket. He could sense that she knew she had won him over. It was in her posture, in her breath, in the wiggle she did to dig into the seat with her elbow at his side. Before long, their mingling heat was enough to relax him and consider falling back asleep. His hope that there wouldn't be another dream like __that__ , he knew, was vain, but he took the risk anyway. Feeling Furiosa's last waking movements next to him, he offered her the final words of warning he would provide.

"It'll be a hard ride."

"Never said it would be easy."

* * *

The lot of them woke when the sun came over the horizon in the early morning hours. It was difficult for any of them to ignore. Nothing lied to the East to block it out, and the Salt only helped to intensify the light.

It wasn't hard to tell, when they were all gathered for their morning rations, that they'd much prefer to return to the night previous. The morning had seemed so far off, as though it would never come if they never slept. That limbo was almost preferred to the uncertain future that waited for them out on the Salt; they'd have it be an endless chilly night with the war parties looming somewhere beyond the Western horizon that just couldn't find them. It was all too much hopeful thinking - hell, it was too much hopeful thinking to believe that doing anything would somehow grant them the reprieve they sought.

They all took their time eating. Each morsel was given special attention in order to steal as much time as they could to stay on the encampment. It was more time, yes, but more time for what? To ponder just what they'd find out there? To wait and hear for any better ideas? To think about going back? Max swallowed his own idea that he had dismissed the day before and buried it before it could bud into anything more serious and worth regretting hundreds of miles down the road. If anyone else was thinking up an alternate plan, they weren't letting on, and he decided not to ask.

Those who could stomach it had their fill of mother's milk. They could tell it was going sour; to take any of it with them would be a waste of space. No one pretended they could try to make it into some form of cheese to carry even a fraction of it on for a few more days. However many thousands of gallons there were of the stuff, it would have to be left behind.

He wasn't sure who, but he knew __someone__ let loose the valve to the milk, letting the liquid gush out into the sand. It would hardly be noon by the time the sun had worked its magic on the stuff and the stench of it permeated the area. Maybe that was the point. Lit a fire underneath them. It certainly put them on the move; the pool was growing, starting to lick at the bike tires.

The lot of them end up lined up at the crest of the final dune above the Salt, engines idle, each waiting for someone else to be the first to make their way down. Most of them have passengers and sleds with supplies in tow behind them. Their move was going to impact more than themselves. Amid the silence, Furiosa reached into her saddle bags and pulled out two things - a scarf and a spare pair of goggles - and planted them firmly in Max's hand.

Down the line, Max heard two slaps on the metal of a bike, and suddenly it was off - the pair of Vuvalini descended at an angle on the steep slope, only straightening out when the sand finally gave way to salt. There was a hesitation as though they expected others to follow behind them, but they must have decided that wasn't enough. The bike took off again, and this time it didn't stop. Another bike took off with a squeak - the youngest Sister was the passenger - and behind them followed the others, the redhead and the War Boy, the Valkyrie and the pregnant Sister, and finally the last Sister and her two companions.

Max and Furiosa were the last two up on the encampment. Truthfully, he expected her to be one of the first to go, but it seemed like the both of them now had the same level of apprehension. Going down meant there was no turning back, but __not__ going down was so much worse. Furiosa would lose the Vuvalini again, lose the Sisters, and there would be no finding them again. After one last look at Max before she slid her goggles on and pulled the black fabric over her face, Furiosa took off down the sandbank. She wasn't afraid of the slopes, wasn't afraid of the speed and the wind - her days as a War Boy had dulled the apprehension. It was only a few short seconds before she caught up with the pack, and eventually found her way to the head of it.

After all this time to think about it, and after the entire conversation he had with Furiosa, he still wasn't sure. He should know by now, and it should come easily to him, whether he'd follow her tracks or turn away. It was a waste of time for him to simply wait, but if they were right, and he has 160 days of supplies behind him, then he had all the time in the world. It was an exaggeration, of course. Despite how heavy the salt was, Max knew the wind would clean the flatland of the tracks that they left behind. There was also no knowing if or when the War Party would catch up, and he can only guess at what would happen if they caught him again.

 _ _Fifty days,__ they had agreed. Fifty days to look for somewhere better on the other side of the salt. Optimistically, the provisions would allow him to be left with sixty days' rations should he make it here on the same path. Realistically, there was no telling. Anything could happen.

Maybe he'd come back sooner. Surely they'd understand, once each day becomes indistinguishable from the next. Hell, he could invite them along if they feel the same as he does. Can't be any way that the War Party's going to be going for them by then. It's not as though scratching a living off rocks hasn't worked for people before.

It was a surprise when a chill came upon him. It was not wind; instead, it sat around him like a pool, and it grew as cold as the winds that licked at them throughout the night. There was absolutely no reason for it to exist, and Max quickly decided that he wouldn't stick around to find out why. With a sigh, Max got ready to move: he donned the goggles and scarf and shuffled in his seat to shift the bike out of neutral, but before he could move even an inch -

 _ _Where are you, Max? Where are you?__

 _ _You promised to help us.__

Max wanted so horribly to empty out everything he had eaten because he knew he had made that promise, but they were buried hundreds of miles away, and here he was. Fifty days of Salt ahead of him. A War Party behind him. Not much reason to go either way, and not much he could do to avenge them. What was he supposed to do, rally together the - what, __thirteen__ of them to fight against the __hundreds, plural__ of War Boys out for blood? That was a more certain death.

Glory didn't like the decision. Suddenly, Max could see her - her hand reached out as though it would hit him, and he raised his own to defend himself, and for his effort the bike toppled over. Being on the ground half-trapped under the bike sent him into a panic - it doesn't help that it's his left leg that's been caught underneath it - and he scrambled to right the bike. He could still sense her, and it's become instinct to run, and he allowed that instinct to grab hold of him once again.

It was not cold anymore. It became hot - __blisteringly__ hot inside his leathers, and once the bike was set back up again, Max took off without looking back, afraid that the Hands might get him before he could make it down the hill. If the lot of them were to have raced to the Salt, he was sure that he'd be the best time by __seconds.__

Once the bike and sled were on the flat ground, Max fanged it. He forced himself to focus on the shrinking cloud of dust ahead of him and let the engine roar louder. There was no way that he was going to listen to her shout down from the sand. __Come back, pa!__

 _ _Shut up shut up shut up shut up__


End file.
